


Nothin' Says Lovin'

by Cave_of_the_mounds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chefs, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 09:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11460840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cave_of_the_mounds/pseuds/Cave_of_the_mounds
Summary: Inspired by a request from tumblr user @feelmyroarrr for the Friends to Lovers square on my SPNKinkBingo card. Dean and Sam helped the reader when she was cursed, and since then they've continued to visit. The reader isn't sure if the attraction between her and Dean is mutual until he takes her up on an offer.Also fulfilling a prompt from @klainaholic's 400 followers celebration - bolded in the fic.Future chapters will fill other squares of my SPNKinkBingo card. Also posted on tumblr @butiaintgonnaloveem.





	Nothin' Says Lovin'

You haul another box from the back to the front counter, carefully unwrapping each delicate piece from inside, checking for damage before pricing it and repacking it for storage. Just as you finish with the box, familiar voices drift in from the sidewalk outside, the deep rumble gives away their presence before they push open the door, making the bells ring. Your stomach does a quick flip, and you stare, waiting for them to enter, your mood lifting as soon as you see their figures filling up the entryway.

“Hey guys,” you call over, watching as Sam and Dean scan the store until they locate you behind the box on the counter.

Sam grins, lifting a hand from his pocket as he waves, and Dean glances down to the box in his hands, a tight smile on his face.

You step out from behind the counter, arms lifted to offer hugs to both of them. “It’s good to see you guys again. I mean, this is a good visit? Right?” You stop, cocking your head to the side as you wait for confirmation.

“As long as you don’t have anything to report to us, then yeah, just here to say hi,” Sam assures you, leaning down and wrapping his arms around you as you let out a small sigh of relief.

Trying to return to business as usual hadn’t been easy, although the construction crew and the insurance company had both been surprisingly efficient and helpful. Your property had been replaced and you’d even managed to upgrade a few things, but since then you’d been caught in a constant loop of inventory, and sales, and cleaning, and cooking, and tension.

“Sorry,” you scrunch up your face in apology, regretting the way you jump to the worst conclusions each time they enter your shop. “Yeah. So far, so good. Aside from Muriel next door. She’s still pissed about that wall that got blown out.”

“Want us to keep an eye on her? Make sure she doesn’t curse you, too?”

“No, I think we’re good. I think I can bridge the gap with a few more plates of cookies. But thanks.”

They both lift their brows, tilting their heads and sharing a look that’s gone in a flash.

“Seriously guys, it’s fine. Muriel loves my cookies.”

“The way you cook? She’d be nuts not to.”

You look up at Dean, inhaling sharply at his praise as you feel the rush of heat from your body amping up with the mixture of excitement and exhaustion that comes with restrained attraction.

“Well, thanks.” You glance past him, eyes drifting until you notice the time on the clock on the wall. “Speaking of - you guys hungry? I could close up for lunch and make you something?”

“That’d be great-”

“We were actually heading-”

They answer at the same time, talking over each other for a moment until they stop, sharing annoyed looks at one another.

“That would be great,” Sam begins softly, “But  _I_ was going to head down to a few other stores. Dean can stay with you, though.”

Dean nods his head slightly, eyes rolling a bit as he agrees, his fingers pinching the corners of the box he’s holding. His expression too hard to score. You’ve been mentally tallying the moments you spent together, trying to determine if he’s being friendly, or trying to be _friendly_. So far, coming up with nothing conclusive.

He’d started by blatantly flirting with you, but that turned out to be part of him working the case. It felt real enough, and you could have sworn you’d seen the same flirty look in his eyes at least a few times since then during his visits, but then again, he sometimes looked at the food you served him the same way. That’s how everything was when you tried to figure him out; tender brushes of hands and skin and long looks canceled out by ‘atta girl’ back pats and tight nods.  _Friendly_  then friendly.

“Okay,” you breathe. “If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll see you in a bit.” Sam winks at you, flipping over the closed sign on your door as he walks through it.

“Well,” you rock a bit on your feet before sliding over to flip the lock, “Let’s eat, huh?”

“You know, you don’t have to feed us every time we come by.” Dean walks behind you, following you down the stairs to your demonstration kitchen. The quiet hum of appliances replaces the sounds from the street and the light music you had playing throughout the storefront.

“Like hell I don’t. It’s really the least I can do, considering. And anyway, what other reason would you have to keep stopping by if it wasn’t for the food?” You cringe, glad he can’t see your face as you clench your fist to keep from slapping your hand over your mouth. A quick stretch of your facial muscles and you turn to him to change the subject.

“So, what’s that?” You nod your head at his hands as you turn to the fridge, grabbing the ingredients you need.

“Oh. It’s uh, another thing I found in the kitchen. See? A reason other than the food.” Friendly.

“I’m sure it’s one of many,” you sarcastically reply around the slice of tomato in your mouth, falling back on self-deprecating humor to push back your nerves. He nibbles a bit on the inner corner of his lip, looking uncharacteristically shy.  _Friendly._  “Alright, lemme see.”

Dean slides the box across the counter, and you notice the age of it, the corners battered and the flap close to ripping off. Delicately, you pull it open, and pull away the neatly folded, yellowing tissue paper revealing a worn wooden handle attached to a slightly bent, narrow rod, and three flower and star-shaped iron molds. You suck in a breath and your lips curve into a gleeful smile.

“It’s a [rosette iron](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/57/52/84/5752846c7d529cf3d25c731cefd7a7c3--rosette-my-mom.jpg).” You pull out one of the molds, flipping it over in your fingers as you examine the intricate pattern. It’s dark and heavy in your hands, not like the newer sets made from stainless steel; this is cast iron. You remain lost in admiration for who knows how long, until Dean breaks the moment with a soft chuckle. It’s not the first time he’s interrupted your daydreaming. It’s almost become routine since he started bringing by vintage kitchen supplies for you to identify for him every other month or so. Stuff he says he finds in his kitchen. Last time it was a [nut grinder](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/14/91/f0/1491f0416104bc12b0ab35f33cd2f423.jpg), and the time before that a [bean slicer](https://i.ebayimg.com/thumbs/images/g/hyQAAOSwn-tZH30e/s-l225.jpg). You catch his amused and curious glance as he waits for you to explain yourself.

“Sorry, this is just such a gorgeous set. It-It’s for cookies,” you tell him, returning the piece to it’s spot in the box and folding the tissue back over it. “You don’t know how jealous I am that you just have all this great stuff in your kitchen.” You slide it back to him across the counter.

“It’s only great if you know how to use it. Keep it.” He says, stopping you with his hand. Friendly.

You can’t help the look of hope and excitement in your eyes as you pretend to try to refuse his offer. “No, I couldn’t.”

“You can, and you should. Use it to make Muriel some more cookies. Or consider it my small way of trying to make things up to you after blowing out half your shop.”

You turn away, putting together ingredients and warming the pan as you finish putting together some lunch. “You know, when you said  **‘Wait! I have a better idea that doesn’t involve destroying the house** ’ I hoped you meant there would be a lot less destruction than there was.”

“Well, witches don’t make things easy. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s been months, and you did what you had to do. I’m alive, and while things are a little rough, I’m still glad.” You smile to yourself, letting the sound of the sizzling pan fill the silence.

“People really pay you sixty bucks for a plate?”

You turn to look at Dean, finding him twirling a platter between his fingers a bit too haphazardly for your liking.

“Ye-eh-esss,” you nervously sing as you skip over to grab it from him. “This is hand painted.”

“It’s a plate.”

“Well, you don’t just use it every day. It’s for special occasions, or for decoration.” You set it back on the display.

“Do people really need all this stuff? I mean, what the hell is this thing?”

You can’t help your giggle because it really is one of the more absurd items you carry. “That. Is a [melon corer](https://www.uncommongoods.com/images/items/41300/41382_1_1200px.jpg),” he stares at you blankly, “For like, cantaloupe. You slide it along the inside to cut some away from the rind, then use the fork part to eat it.” His expression moves from confused to pained, pulling a full laugh from you. “I know. I know, but people like giving gifts. No one  _needs_  all this stuff. It’s the thought that counts. It’s taking time to get something for a person, or making a meal and serving it with a special item that makes it useful.”

“I s’pose,” he flicks his brows; his eyes darting to the box containing the iron and then to you, one cheek rounded in a smirk.  _Friendly._

The conversation lulls as you cook, but you can feel Dean watching you, and keep your back to him while you work, trying to muster up the courage to make a move. God, something, anything. Since the incident with the curse, your stomach churned with the uncertainty of his intentions; or maybe more from your hope of what his intentions could be.

“That smells awesome,” he says, his head appearing right over your shoulder, making you jump.

“Thanks. It’s what we’re making in class tonight, so you get to be my guinea pig and tell me if it’s any good.”

You plate up two servings and set it before him, steam still rising from the hot food in tiny wisps. You settle on the stool next to his, watching as he digs and scoops with his fork, getting a huge bite of food ready to devour. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, amusement pulling up at the corner of his open mouth.

“What?” he asks, nervously.

“Nothing.”

“You’re watching me.”

“I know. I want to see your reaction. It’s part of the joy of being a chef.”

He remains still, dragging out the moment until you’re almost ready to push the food into his mouth yourself. You start to reach for the fork when he finally shoves it into his mouth, hissing at the temperature, before moaning at the taste. His head rolls back and his eyes close, and it’s dangerously close to what you’d consider an orgasmic reaction.

“So?”

“Fuck, that’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I could eat that everyday. This. Is. Awesome.”

You look down to your plate, happy with the way it looks and scoop yourself a bite, humming with satisfaction while critiquing yourself for not using enough herbs. You watch Dean, enjoying the way he’s digging into the food, imagining the two of you were back at your house, or at the nice little restaurant down the road with the strong brandy Old Fashioneds. You clear your throat.

“Would you ever want to…” you pause, caught in surprise by the way he fully turns his attention back to you, rich green eyes staring right back into your own. “Uhh,” you backtrack, “You should come to one of my cooking classes.”

If he notices any of your disappointment, he doesn’t show it, instead giving you a playful grin. Friendly.

“I don’t know about that. I’d hate to show up the teacher in her own class, I mean. I know my way around a kitchen.”

You play offended, “Well, then, in that case, I bet you can tell me what this is.” You hold up what looks like a comb with a long handle.

“Oh come on, that’s easy,” he waves you off. “It’s a backscratcher.”

“[Cakebreaker](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41%2BCMS6xelL._SX355_.jpg).” You whisper.

“Yeah, like I said, a cakebreaker.”

“Just like you said.” You giggle and look back down to your food, trying to once again hide your blush and the way you swallow thickly despite his kind rejection. Friendly.

A little while and some small talk later, you hear the jingle of the bells from your shop door, eyes wide in alarm having remembered you locked it. Dean goes stiff at the sound too, his head perking up to listen.

“Hello? Dean? Y/n?” Sam calls, making you both slump in your seats again.

You roll your jaw, “Did he seriously just pick my lock?”

“Well, I wasn’t answering my phone, so probably.” He flicks out his phone showing six missed call notifications, pouting in a fake apology before sucking in a quick breath and shouting, “Yeah, Sam. Down in the kitchen!”

“You shouldn’t ignore him like that, it could have been important.”

“And let him drag me away? Not a chance,” he finishes with a wink.  _Friendly._

You hear Sam’s feet hurry down the stairs before you see him, his face tense for a second until he observes the scene and shifts to something resembling embarrassment.

“Ahh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt -”

“No, it’s fine, Sam.” You flash him a smile, “We lost track of time. There’s still some food left. Want some?” You move over to the still simmering pan, lifting it to scoop the food onto another plate before he can answer.

“Oh, Sammy, you gotta try this -  
“Actually, we kind of have to hit the road.”

The brothers talk over each other again, and this time there is no hiding the way your face falls. Dean let’s out a quiet ‘Oh’ as he wipes his mouth with a napkin and brings his cleared plate to the sink.

“Well, take the leftovers. You gotta eat, too.” You dig out a to-go container, packing it up as you hear them smacking one another behind your back. You plaster on a smile, turning around and gripping the container. “Now Sam, don’t you dare let Dean steal a bite of this,” you tell him sternly.

They lift their hands, waving behind themselves while they make their way out. Friendly.

You pause and nod at both of them, a sad smile drawing your lips tight, “Til next time, guys.”

* * *

Everyone was packing up, talking amongst themselves as you wrapped up the class.

“Now, on the back of your recipe cards, you’ll find some wine pairing suggestions. And remember, if you refer a friend, you get one class free,” you spoke above them.

They start to wave you off, making their way up the stairs and out of your shop as you follow, ready to lock up for the night.

“I missed it, huh?”

Your head shoots up, surprised by Dean’s voice, before you collect yourself, smiling while you shrug in confirmation.

“Good night,” one of your regulars, Janice, says with a hint of a question and a pointed eyebrow.

You flick a glance at Dean, then back to her with a nervous, restrained smile. “Goodnight, Jan.”

She smirks and ducks her head as she walks out, pulling her friend’s sleeve as she not-so-subtly checks out Dean while he leans against the counter.

You usher the rest out, chewing on your lip, your stomach doing flips as the nerves flare up again. You face the door, taking your time with the lights and the lock until you catch the figures being reflected in the window and notice Dean watching you - waiting. Just the way he leans against the furniture makes this appearance feel  _friendly_. The blush couldn’t be stopped at he caught your look in the glass, and you quickly pulled your teeth away from your lip, straightening out and turning back to him.

“I, uhh. I thought you and Sam had to go?”

“Sammy had to go. I stuck around.”

“Everything okay?” You ask, anxiously shifting as you try to focus without staring too directly at him.

“Yeah, things are fine. Muriel checked out by the way.” He pauses as you roll your eyes. “And I just...you know I was hoping to get in on that lesson. Expand my horizons. I don’t suppose I could get a private lesson now that everyone’s gone?”  _Friendly_ , that definitely goes in the  _friendly_  column.

“Well, I hope you guys didn’t torture her too much, or else I might have to upgrade from cookies,” you smile as you walk past him toward the back stairs. He follows without having to be asked. Biting back the hopeful question you really wanted to ask, you clear your throat, “So, you’re serious? You want me to give you a lesson?”

“If you’re tired, or it’s too much trouble then-”

“No! No, it’s not a problem. Just...surprised...is all.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“I nee-ever said that,” you say as you throw your hands up in defense. “I’ve still got some food from the class if you’re hungry. That’s easy to make, probably even for you. But, mayyyybe we can give the rosettes a go?”

He grins at your teasing, before questioning you.

“You want me to help you make cookies?”

“They’re deep fried, they barely count as cookies. Unless...you don’t think you can?” You challenge. He stares you down before sliding his jacket from his shoulders.

Challenge accepted. You gather the containers for sugar and flour, “Okay, you start mixing this stuff, and I’ll get the oil started.”

You work with your backs to each other, him tossing questions about the recipe over his shoulder, and you multitasking as you tidy up while waiting for the oil to heat. You check over Dean’s shoulder, finding him mashing the ingredients like he’s trying to put a hole through your countertop. Your hands come to rest on his forearm, stopping his movements. He slumps a little, staring at you with adorable wide-eyed uncertainty.

“Here, a little lighter. It’s not gonna fight back.” You guide his arm in a circular motion, gently whisking the flour with the egg and milk mixture.

“Thanks, I got it.” He gives you a sheepish smile before pulling his posture back up.

“Sure.”

You turn back to the stove, watching the oil, wondering about watched pots while trying to think of something to fill the blaring silence.

“So? No Sam tonight then?”

You hear him push a breath through pursed lips. “Ahhmm, nope.”

“He got something against eating?”

“I wonder the same thing all the time,” he says, chuckling.

“Well, more cookies for you. Okay,” you pause to think through the recipe one more time, “We should be ready.” He sets the bowl onto the counter, standing so close he’s pushing into your side as you continue. “So, we need to get the iron nice and warmed up in the oil.”

“Always good to get warmed up,” his voice low and throaty in your ear.

You stifle a snort, looking at him, waiting for a twitch, or a wink, or anything else to let you know which column to bank that one in, but he’s got such a damn good poker face. His one eyebrow bends slightly, and you notice the corners of his mouth pulled in - pinching, just hinting at a smirk, but not even that gives away the intent of his words, and he seems to know it. The cockiness there instigates you, eyelid twitch and all, and before you can overthink it, you continue on, voice dipping into something more sultry.

“Ye-up. So after a minute or two, and while the iron’s hot, you dip it in the batter, nice and easy. Not all the way, you don’t want to just thrust it in there.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans.

“What?” You scoff.

“Really? Do you hear yourself?” He tilts his head, forehead wrinkled in disbelief.

“You got a problem with the way I teach?”

“Nope. Please continue.” The glimmer of amusement in his eyes makes you swallow hard. Friendly, with a little bit of  _friendly_...or maybe it’s the other way around.

“Okay, so then you kind of swipe it in the hot oil, before finally plunging it in there.”

“Kind of tease it first, then dive in?” His voice wavers, and you glance at him, noticing him trying and failing to maintain a straight face. Your mind adds a tally in the column for the even more confusing  _friendly_  followed by a question mark.

“You’ve got it.” You watch as a bit of a blush creeps over his complexion. Your own heart pounds as your chest constricts, trying to keep your breathing normal instead of the adrenaline-fueled panting your body is calling for. “Okay, so now, see how the edges are puffing up and opening away from the hot iron?”

“Puffy and open, sonofabitch,” he whispers. You feel his hand on the small of your back, a little shaky, but blazing hot through the fabric of your top.

Now, your ears start to burn as you restrain yourself from backtracking. Your skin immediately heats up enough to draw out a light breakout of sweat, and you tremble with jitteriness as you opt to continue with the lesson that’s hopefully still tame enough to brush this all off as a joke if it goes south.

“That’s perfect, now we can take this chopstick and help push the cookie the rest of the way off the iron. Then you flip it, let the magic work while it’s face-down, and it’s finished.”

“That’s how you finish?” He sounds strained.  _Friendly._

“That’s - ah -,” You’re thrown off for a moment, knees weak at his implication. With how close he’s standing you can smell the mixture of sweat, and air, and whatever deodorant or body wash he used, something probably named Ocean Breeze. It’s mouthwatering and exactly what you would describe as masculine. You think you’ve got more in the fun column, but the thrill of the moment tempts you to push on. “You know, it’s not always that easy? Sometimes there’s a big mess, and then there’s the praying to god that you can actually make it to the end. But it’s worth all the effort, especially if they’re only an occasional kind of treat.”  _Friendly._

His eyes are bright and focused hard on you. He shifts a little as he wets his lips, “You don’t mind only having them once in awhile, even though you like em?”

Your mind races, eyes dancing back and forth between his as you search hopefully for a double meaning to his words. Head close to shaking side to side as you try to determine - cookies, or  _cookies_?

“Nuh uh, nope. Sometimes there’s just no time, or...someone could be kind of picky, or prefers variety or something,” You struggle to find a good innuendo. Inarticulate sounds escape from you as the panicky rush constricts your chest until you finally let it spill out. “Or maybe sometimes someone has other obligations and the other person can understand that and still enjoy the cookies, even if they’re just...cookies.”

_Friendly._

His mouth hangs slightly open, chest heaving as he looks you up and down. “Just,” he pauses to clear his throat after his voice shakes, “Just to be clear, we’re not just talking about cookies?”

The tension snaps within you and you giggle nervously. “No. I hope we’re not. I’m certainly not.”

“Okay, good, me neither.” He dips his head to place his lips against yours in a quick and confirming type of kiss. He pulls back, looking at you from under his brow, eyes narrowed as his expression goes back to cocky. “Can I teach you to cook sometime?”

A laugh escapes on your exhale. “Sure, what’s your specialty?”

“Well, I was thinking pancakes,” he smirks, waiting for you to take the bait.

“I only eat breakfast in the mornings, you think you’ll still be around tomorrow morning?”

“Until you kick me out,” he assures you, nose and lips brushing against yours as he leans in again.


End file.
